


Happy Birthday, Captain Reynolds

by deathmallow



Category: Firefly
Genre: F/M, Gen, One-Shot, birthday fic, jayne being inappropriate as ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathmallow/pseuds/deathmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Giftfic for angylinni, (sort of) based on the prompt: <i>Mal and Inara celebrating his birthday he doesn't want to tell her about</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, Captain Reynolds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angylinni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angylinni/gifts).



Mal had cared about birthdays once. Growing up out on Shadow his mother had always tried to make him something for his birthday, some small treat or the like, a grin and a, “For your special day, Malcolm.” He remembered the ranch hands going and getting him good and drunk for his sixteenth, shoving whiskey into his hands and laughing and pounding him on the back as he sputtered at the burn of it sliding down his throat. Told him not to tell his mother, that this was man’s business here and he was a man now. They’d treated him to a woman also the next night since he was too busy puking his guts out the night before to enjoy that present. His mother didn’t hear about that either.

But that was half a lifetime gone now. The war and Serenity Valley made a whole parcel of things that seemed important before turn to meaningless noise. Not that he didn’t like it when little Kaylee took it on herself to make a cake for one of the crew. Didn’t seem to be a thing Kaylee couldn’t brighten up just by turning her mind and her sweetness to it. On one point he agreed with Jayne—if Simon messed things up and hurt her, his getting spaced would suddenly look like a mighty good idea.

Kaylee had asked his birthday once, and he’d spun some lie about not knowing, about being raised on some desperate border world as an orphan. Felt bad for the lie, seeing as she nodded with that solemn sympathy written all over her face, but she put the subject away, stowed neat as her tools, and didn’t bring it up again. He’d noticed she seemed to make an effort to do him small kindnesses, though, as if to make up for it.

He didn’t celebrate birthdays, but he figured he might rethink that when he woke up the morning of his thirty-second birthday to find Inara sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in a silk of blue so rich and vibrant it seemed almost unbearable in the fairly bare, dull confines of his quarters. He lifted a hand, wanting to reach out and touch it, but dropped his hand guiltily. “So, you’ve given up on the idea of knocking?” he asked. “Seem to remember that you set clear terms of people askin’ permission to enter _your_ quarters…”

“You may not realize,” she said, cutting him off, looking him with that usual quiet, unruffled expression she had. If Kaylee was sunny cheerfulness, he thought, Inara was poise and patience, and damned if he couldn’t find more than his fair share of pleasure in trying to just get the woman to budge for once and show a crack in that demeanor. So he was stunned to see the spark of something in those dark eyes, some hint of mischief or maybe even something else entirely. “A Companion can also choose an interlude for personal reasons unrelated to our profession.” 

“We’re talking pleasure, rather than business?” he managed the baffled wisecrack. Hardly his best, but this was Inara here, sitting here informing him so politely, so assuredly, that she apparently was here thinking of having an "interlude" with him. _Interlude_. Normally he’d have had some smart remark about that and what a prissy word it was for what she did. But somehow he couldn’t manage the word _screw_ or _chǎofàn*_ , because suddenly it seemed too coarse, too raw.

“Malcolm.” There was the hint of something stern in her voice, something that should have been at odds with the delicate silks she wore but somehow worked all the same. “Be quiet and don’t ruin your birthday gift by talking.” 

It crossed his mind to ask how it was she knew about his birthday but, well the woman had Alliance contacts, and there were probably warrants out for him and all. If anyone on _Serenity_ could get that answer, probably would be her. 

She leaned down and kissed him, her lips insistent against his, nothing professional or poised about it, just heat between them, flaring fierce and pure as starfire out in the black, something that might burn to go too close or to look for too long. Well, he’d always been a man who was willing to take a risk for a chance at a fair reward. He leaned into the kiss, his hands coming up to brush through her hair, pulling it loose from the pins that held it, mussing up her careful, composed appearance. She didn’t protest, didn’t back away, just kissed him all the more for it, her hands yanking at his shirt…“Mal!” Why she’d be yelling his name like that, and why her voice had got so low…

He woke up alone and hard as that crate of industrial diamonds in the smuggler’s hold bound for a drop on Clio. Even the light pressure of the covers against his cock as he rolled over onto his back had him gritting his teeth and wanting to fling the blankets back. Feeling like he could almost still smell the fading scent of her perfume, like he could see a flicker of too-bright blue in the doorway, he put the back of one forearm over his eyes and groaned loudly. Yeah, happy gorram birthday to him.

“You busy diddlin’ yourself in your bunk there?” came Jayne’s voice through the hatch. If Jayne asking with something like curious interest if he was playing a little morning game of _wǔdǎyī*_ didn’t kill the mood like a bucket of ice water, nothing would. “No judging, a man’s gotta relieve the tension somehow. Just saying it’s my laundry week and I don’t want to handle no sheets been messed up like that with another man’s stuff.” 

“Yeah, Jayne,” he said irritably. No question, he’d liked it better for sure when it was Inara waking him up.

"Oh, and act surprised. Kaylee's got some kind of cake thing for you."

"What?"

"Your birthday, yeah? 'Nara told us about it." Mal gave a grunt of irritation at that. Apparently he'd been right about her and her ability to spy into his life, if nothing else. Too bad the rest of it hadn't been true.

**Author's Note:**

>  _chǎofàn_ ="stirfrying rice", i.e, having sex
> 
>  _wǔdǎyī_ ="five beating one", i.e, male masturbation. 
> 
> My first "Firefly" fic so all canon inconsistencies, OOCness, and just plain being wrong are my own fault.
> 
> Title's a riff off the Marilyn/JFK "Happy Birthday Mister President". Because "Mal's Sexytimes Dream" was a little too obvious.


End file.
